


The Wolf and the Mouse

by Saklani



Category: Ladyhawke (1985)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saklani/pseuds/Saklani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An encounter between a thief and a knight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wolf and the Mouse

I test the bars of the cage, making sure they will hold my wolf-form in. We have done a good job constructing this, and my heart swells at the thought of your loyalty and friendship.

I hear you rustling around behind me, adding straw bedding to the hard wood floor. Your thoughtfulness touches me, for I would never ask you to think of my comfort.

“Will it hold?” you ask.

Without looking back, for I do not wish to be distracted from my task, I say, “The bars are strong. Even my battering against them will not knock them down.”

It occurs to me that I often act gruff or swaggering around you. I threatened your life several times, although I could no more hurt you than my Isabeau. I wonder if you realize how dear you are to me.

I turn to regard you, a thin waif of a boy. My gaze runs over your unruly brown hair, soft facial features and large, soulful eyes. The scars on your chest capture my attention, and shame curdles my insides.

“Is something wrong?” you ask innocently.

My lips twitch, wanting to smile. Phillipe, how bemused you look by my stare. “How do the scars feel?”

“I desire to scratch them for days.”

I shake my head, frowning sternly. “Leave them alone. I will give you a lotion to ease the itch.”

“I would be grateful.” You go back to your task, adding a second layer of straw to the floor.

I should finish readying our packs for tonight’s journey, but I continue watching you. What a strangely appealing creature you are. Never shall you grow into a warrior such as myself. Your shoulders shall never be strong enough to bear the weight of armor, nor your arms a broad sword, and yet, I think your heart braver than that of the strongest knight.

Your movements become rapid and a bit uneven. Straw falls into clumps rather than a smooth cover. My stare makes you uneasy and self-conscious.

I drop my eyes to the ground, as much to relieve myself as you. What strange feelings are these in the pit of my stomach and depth of my heart? You are dear to me, yes, but not in _that_ way.

I growl menacingly and stalk out of the cage, ignoring your startled glance. Of course you are nothing more than a friend to me. The stresses of this journey and my cursed existence are affecting me, is all.

I find Imperious asleep by the extinguished campfire. He shall not stir for hours, so wearied is he by this trek. I begrudge him not his rest, for he is an old man, unused to such rigors. I have used him ill before, I shall not make that mistake again.

I search for my lady, but she is nowhere to view. I could call her, but to what end? Having her perched on my arm only intensifies my tortured desire to hold her again. No, let her fly free and hope that her hawk’s heart finds no small enjoyment in that freedom.

A real smile lifts my lips, as I remember your consternation when she alighted on your arm instead of mine. You were so worried that I might fly into anger at her trust in you. How endearing you looked, urging her back to me.

Ah, but my thoughts are circling back upon themselves today, I rummage through my saddlebags, searching for my medicinal supplies. Locating the appropriate pouch, I pull it out and check on the quantity of fragrant lotion. I am relieved to find enough to treat your wounds.

Heat spreads unbidden through my loins when I picture myself rubbing it on your hairless chest. Shamefaced I kneel and will the feeling away. I love Isabeau with everything I am; why do I have these thoughts of you?

I picture my lady in my mind, unearthly in her beauty and manner. The image distorts, blurs and becomes your face. Ah, how foolish I have become. You _are_ her to me in a way. Through you am I capable of speaking to her again and hearing her replies. My love finds a way of expressing itself through you and, thusly, to you as well.

Satisfied with this answer- for what could be a truer expression of my love for Isabeau- I stand again. Turning to seek you out, I discover you behind me. How quietly you can move, like any true Mouse.

“Are you feeling well, Sir?”

My mouth tightens into a thin line. I do not want to be Sir to you anymore. “I am fine. I was looking for the lotion to put on your chest. Sit down.”

You flinch at my angered expression and the harsh note in my voice. Silently obeying me, you sit and open your tunic with shaking fingers. After all this time, you still fear me. I could scream with anger at myself.

I sit beside you and dip my hand into the pouch, scooping out a large portion of lotion. Your mouth drops open slightly when I reach out to spread it on your chest. You remain still when I rub it over the long scratches, but I feel your heart racing.

I feel much more- soft skin, marred only by the damage of my own paws, bumpy ribs and a hint of wiry muscle. Unable to stop myself, I rub a small nipple with the pad of my thumb.

“Sir?” you gasp.

“My name is Navarre, “ I say, my voice husky to my ears, I lean forward to brush your lips with mine, watching for the slightest sign of fear or hesitance. I see none, only confusion laced with the beginnings of desire.

The touch of our lips seems to break something in you, and you scramble backward. “Sir, I fear you are not feeling yourself. Perhaps some rest will help restore you.”

Laughter, more wonderful for its long absence, bubbles out of me. I have seldom felt _more_ myself. “You think me mad for desiring you.”

Pain floods your eyes, quelling my mirth. “Do not play with my feelings,” you snap, but your voice trembles. “You love Isabeau.”

I consider your face, pondering my previous thoughts. Am I being unfair to you? Is everything I feel for you merely an extension of my love for her?

“I do not desire to hurt you, Phillipe. I love Isabeau, tis true, but I care for you as well.”

My confession astounds the both of us. A struggle plays out on your face, twisting your fair mouth into a grimace. I wait patiently for your decision, watching the light flood the surrounding icy plains.

You answer without words, creeping over to me and timidly putting your head on my shoulder. My arms wrap around you of their own accord. A soft sigh, and you sink fully into my embrace.

“I have ever lived alone,” you say softly, “without knowledge of what it is to be close to another. Even if this be for only one day, I would share myself with you.” Lifting your head, you invite a renewal of the kiss.

I cannot refuse such an offer, despite the guilt suffusing my heart. You taste of musk and spice, sweet to my senses. Easily do I lose myself in the sensation.

Pushing back gently, I lower you to the ground. You accept my weight eagerly, wrapping surprisingly strong arms around my shoulders. Our mouths never part, even as I maneuver to settle more comfortably.

Slipping my large hands under your tunic, I caress soft skin with calloused fingertips. You break the kiss, moaning softly. Dear God, you are beautiful.

I nip tenderly at your slender throat. One spot near your pulse point causes the most delightful series of gasps and inarticulate cries. Until your helpless twisting in my arms forces me to desist, I torture the area repeatedly.

I pull back to study your face. Your wide, innocent eyes trap me in their depths, and I feel myself falling endlessly, losing myself in you. How right this feels, your thin frame under my bulky form, your heart beating in time to mine. You are different from Isabeau, soft, but definitely masculine. I do love you, for _you_, and not any other reason.

This fuels my ardor, and I roughly remove your tunic. Scooting down, I stroke your scars. Another wave of shame chills me to the core. Kissing the area just above them, I murmur, “I am sorry, I am sorry,” over and over.

Your hands tangle in my hair, pawing through the short strands. They yank painfully when my mouth finds a sensitive nub, but the startled cry of pleasure soothes any discomfort I might feel. How glorious you are in the throes of passion.

I continue the journey down your stomach, discovering a ticklish area near your navel. Saving this information for later use, I nibble down your waist.

Suddenly, tremors rack your body, spasming from head to toe. You push me away, and I release you, sitting up. You huddle into a tight ball.

“Phillipe?”

“I cannot do this, Si- Navarre. I do not know how.” You squeeze your eyes tightly closed, clenching your jaw in distress.

“Let me teach you,” I coax, laying again by your side. I run a soothing hand along your flank.

The touch slowly causes you to unwind from the huddle, but shudders run down your frame. “Do you trust me, Phillipe?” The thought occurs to me that you still have no reason to trust me. What have I done since the beginning but use you?

Thus, your whispered, “Yes,” takes me by surprise. I almost stop stroking you in my shock, but my fingers know what they want. Using my other hand, I reach for your pants. Noting the fear in your eyes, I soothingly kiss your forehead. My hands carefully pull the material over your hips, down your legs and off.

For a moment, I regard your erection, long and slender like the rest of you. No other ever saw you as I do now, and fierce pride near cripples me. I rip the clothes from my own body, carelessly discarding the weapons. If an enemy approached us now, I would tear him apart with my bare hands for interrupting us. Tis lucky Imperious sleeps like the dead, for even his presence would not stop me.

I catch your gaze and find you staring in wonder. I am built like a warrior everywhere, am I not? You smile in arousal and reach out a hand to touch cautiously.

Did that moan come from me? What power do you have over me? I cannot think for your skillful pickpocket’s fingers wreak havoc with my senses.

Unable to stand another second, I lower myself on top of you, matching us loin for loin. I start rocking against you, using my elbows to keep my full weight off of you. Clutching my shoulders reflexively, you thrust up to meet me. The enticing column of your neck is bared when you toss your head back.

//No one else must see you like this,// I think hazily. //Only Isabeau and I must know this side of you.// This idea roots deep within me and takes hold. Isabeau loves you already, else she would not seek to perch on your arm.

I continue to thrust, responding to your wordless pleas. Your eyes roll up into your head when the wave hits you. A savage buck nearly dislodges me and warmth splatters between our bodies. My own release follows in your wake.

Rolling over, I pull you on top, holding tight while we remember how to breathe. Giving in to impulse, I bite the junction of your neck and shoulder, claiming you.

Yelping more in surprise than pain, you say, “Why did you do that?”

“How would you like to live with Isabeau and I?”

Your muscles tighten. “What role could I play in your lives?”

“A companion. A lover. No less important to us than we are to each other.”

“Is such a thing possible?” you ask, your voice full of hope.

“Love knows no boundaries,” I answer, and how well I know that is true.

A brief moment of silence ensues while you consider my words. “If a wolf may love a hawk, why may not three hearts be joined as one?”

The siren song of love echoes through my soul. I cover your face with kisses, which you accept and return eagerly. From now on, there will be three of us.

God save any who attempt to keep us apart.


End file.
